


Aziraphale vs. The Great Fire of London

by charliebrown1234



Series: 5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Emotionally Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, Great Fire of London, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 10:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20044225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234
Summary: It is 1666, and London’s been burning for over two days. Crowley knows because he’s received a commendation for the blaze and had quickly popped over to see what he was receiving credit for.When he arrives in London, he discovers Aziraphale defending St. Paul's Cathedral from the fire. However, a mishap forces Aziraphale and Crowley to flee the flames, and Aziraphale becomes grievously injured in the process.





	Aziraphale vs. The Great Fire of London

It is 1666, and London’s been burning for over two days. Crowley knows because he’s received a commendation for the blaze and had quickly popped over to see what he was receiving credit for.

It was horrifying. Masses of people push and shove their way through the gates to get out of the city as carts laden with belongings choke the narrow streets. Overhead, the ramshackle tenements loom claustrophobically, blocking out the night sky.

Crowley heeds none of this, and instead heads towards St. Paul’s Cathedral, which glows with holy light. From what Crowley’s been picking up from the fleeing humans, the cathedral is being viewed as a safe haven. Books, belongings, printing presses and other assorted valuables are being stored inside with the idea that the cathedral’s open churchyard will prevent the flames from getting close. Further reassurances are made that even if the fire does surround the churchyard, the thick stone walls are flame proof and capable of repelling the blaze.

Unfortunately, Crowley knows these reassurances are all for naught. According to his latest visit downstairs, St. Paul’s Cathedral and everything inside is slated to burn tonight. Crowley himself isn’t too put out by this knowledge, but knows Aziraphale will be extremely upset. Crowley also knows the angel would gladly discorporate himself to try and save the cathedral and its books.

Therefore, it is with great haste Crowley skirts the heat and flames and makes his way towards St. Paul’s. The heat grows increasingly intense with each step he takes, but within a few minutes he has pushed past the masses of humans to the relative openness of the churchyard.

The cathedral’s spire towers overhead, its imposing shape somewhat softened by the wooden scaffolding surrounding it, and Crowley is struck by the feeling of safety that overcomes him as he draws near. Unfortunately, the heat of the flames drawing near won’t be repelled by feelings of safety, so it’s up to him to rescue Aziraphale from the blaze.

Crowley moves quickly to the front door of the church, halting at steps that lead up to the entrance and shouting, “Aziraphale, give it up! It’s too late!”

“Is that you, Crowley?” comes the echoing reply inside the cathedral. The main door opens with a creak and Aziraphale emerges from the gloom of the church, breeches and jacket resplendent amidst the orange of distant flames.

“Who else would it be?” Crowley shouts anxiously. “Come on, we have to leave!” The roar of the growing fire behind him almost swallows his words, the heat drying his throat and mouth. The surrounding temperature has reached incredible proportions and even the normally cold blooded Crowley is beginning to feel uncomfortably warm.

“I can’t! I was ordered to protect the cathedral,” Aziraphale shouts back from the doorway, reluctantly looking over his shoulder at the gleaming interior.

“There won’t be anything to protect, angel! Hell is going to burn it all down, we need to leave!” The fire is now licking hungrily at the buildings surrounding the churchyard, the flimsy structures going up like tinder. To Crowley’s eye, the flames look odd, and as he watches he thinks he sees a flicker of something _other_ in the flames.

He turns and faces the flames, now only meters away, and squints into the bright tongues. _There_, again, a flash of movement and a brief glimpse of what might be a body.

Without a second thought, he shouts, “Reveal yourself!” The ancient Enochian is flawless as it ripples outward, revealing a dozen creatures grinning maliciously in the flames. They look like fire imps, horrid little creatures who normally tend the hellfires downstairs. Their presence here explains why Hell had been so certain that St. Paul’s Cathedral would burn. As Crowley watches, they cackle joyously and make faces at him in the fire.

Crowley turns to shout at Aziraphale again, but the angel has vanished. Where Aziraphale once stood is now a messy conglomeration of glowing eyes, wings, and limbs protruding from his human corporation. He is screaming hoarsely with his human voice, and with stomach-dropping horror Crowley realizes what he’s done.

He’s commanded everything to reveal itself, in ancient Enochian no less, and Aziraphale’s been caught in the crossfire. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a problem for the angel, but Aziraphale’s concentration was already spread thin from protecting the cathedral.

Crowley darts quickly up the front steps, hissing quietly at the faint heat of pseudo-consecrated ground as Aziraphale twitches and shudders on hands and knees. As he nears, Aziraphale cries out and pulls his excess limbs and wings back into his corporation, leaving a single pair of gleaming white wings protruding awkwardly from his back.

The angel pauses, hunched over and trembling under the sudden weight of corporeal wings as he tries to catch his breath. They glow faintly with heavenly light, and Crowley realizes with a jolt that Aziraphale has forced his angelic essence into his wings.

There is no time to contemplate the repercussions of that however. With a crackle of dry wood, the scaffolding surrounding the cathedral catches flame. Aziraphale is still wide eyed and dazed, so Crowley roughly jerks him to his feet in preparation to flee. There is a teetering moment of unsteadiness as the demon is almost overbalanced by the weight of Aziraphale’s wings, and for a moment he thinks they’re about to topple down the stairs into the growing flames.

Then Aziraphale’s wings flap unsteadily, pulling them both back to their feet. “Are you alright, Aziraphale?” Crowley shouts over the roar of the flame. The angel is tense beneath his hands, but he manages a jerky nod. A spark lands on the marginal coverts of Aziraphale’s wing, sizzling briefly, and he jerks his wing away with a gasp and brushes against Crowley in the process.

In that beat, that breath, Crowley can feel _everything_ Aziraphale is experiencing. The angel’s wings are a direct conduit to Aziraphale’s essence, and Crowley is overcome by- _reveal yourself, show yourself, control, must hold tight, oppressive heat, weight, brushes of air, ruffled feathers, sparks are burning him, burning his essence_-

Crowley gasps in a breath as the feathers move away, and the fire rages above them, rapidly moving further along the scaffolding atop the cathedral. The flames near them are several stories tall now, radiating heat that would kill an ordinary man. They need to leave immediately. Keeping well clear of Aziraphale’s wings, he grabs Aziraphale’s wrist and pulls him into a staggering run. If they’re fast enough, they can escape from the same route where Crowley entered.

As Aziraphale stumbles behind him, Crowley sees his escape path burst into flames. His only other option is to head north and try to beat the flames to Newgate, or Aldergate if he’s pressed. He turns quickly around the corner of the cathedral, yanking Aziraphale along and sprinting towards the road across the church yard.

Crowley can feel the gaze of the few fire imps not currently distracted by the cathedral on his back, and he hopes desperately they won’t chase them down. He doesn’t like their chances if the fire imps converge on their escape route.

Finally, they reach the relative cover on the other side of the cathedral. Crowley can feel the heat from the flames as they catch on the timber roof of the church and glances backwards in time to see the mighty spire crumple inwards. Aziraphale staggers to a stop behind him, mouth agape.

“All the books…” Aziraphale whispers, devastated. His wings flare in alarm as another section of the roof crumbles inward, and he takes an aborted step forward before thinking better of it and turning back towards Crowley. “There must be something you can do. Please, Crowley.”

The way Aziraphale is looking at him, desperate and pleading, makes Crowley want to move heaven and earth for him, but there’s nothing he _can_ do. “It’s too late, angel. It’s time to go,” he shouts, the roar of flames overwhelming all other sounds.

He coughs roughly as the smoke enters his lungs, then turns back toward his escape route. The sides of the tenements lining the road are starting to catch ablaze, and Crowley can feel the imps' gaze as the cathedral slowly falls to pieces.

“Aziraphale, we need to go now!” The angel doesn’t even seem to notice the roaring heat singeing his feathers, vanes smoking and blackening. It reminds Crowley alarmingly of his own blackened wings. He tugs on Aziraphale’s wrist with more intent. “Angel!”

Another portion of roof collapses, sending a shower of sparks cascading into the air. Aziraphale cries out as some of them land on his wings, burning brightly before he pulls them forward and pats them out. Crowley readjusts his grip on Aziraphale’s forearm and his sweat slick palm grasps Aziraphale’s hand. To his surprise, Aziraphale returns the grip firmly, then Aziraphale is dragging _him_ towards the nearest road.

They’ve waited too long now watching St. Paul’s Cathedral crumple into debris, and the fire imps are rapidly circumnavigating the churchyard in flames. However, the tenements beyond the churchyard look relatively untouched, so Aziraphale plows ahead determinedly, dragging Crowley as he uses his wings to generate forward momentum.

But the glowing, angelic wings are drawing too much attention, and the fire imps quickly swarm the only clear exit to the churchyard. If Aziraphale continues forward, he'll be forced to run the gauntlet with his exposed wings.

Crowley yanks his hand free from Aziraphale’s and begins manifesting daggers, hurling then with unnerving accuracy at the imps as he continues to move toward the exit. He can’t properly kill them of course, but he can inconvenience the imps enough to encourage a strategic retreat. Even a fire imps’ corporeal form works poorly with several knives in it.

Aziraphale also slows to a walk and reaches down to tear a strip of fabric off his cream colored coat, creating a rough loop in his hand. With his other hand, he plucks a chunk of rock from the ground, fitting it firmly into the fabric before slinging it at the fire imps. It hits one of them in the head with a satisfying _thwack_.

Crowley shifts to defend Aziraphale’s flank as they work in tandem, and after a particularly impressive strike by Aziraphale, Crowley takes a heat seared breath to ask, “Where’d you learn to use a sling like that?”

“Jesse’s youngest taught me in Elah,” Aziraphale replies distractedly, palming another fist sized chunk of rock into his sling.

“What, you mean Jesse’s youngest David? The one who defeated Goliath?”

“Well, we had to do something waiting for Saul to buck up,” Aziraphale says crossly, slinging another chunk of stone to hit an imp squarely in the face. “Besides, this really isn’t the time.”

“You’ve got that right, angel.” They’ve picked off most of the imps at this point, or at least annoyed enough of them that they’ve vacated the area, but the imps' presence has already spread the fire to the tenements flanking the road. The structures groan ominously and begin to crumple inward, creating a flaming arch of fire.

Aziraphale and Crowley’s eyes meet, and the two begin sprinting toward the road, their only escape from this fiery inferno. The heat is sweltering, blazing now as they reach the opening of the road and dodge underneath the flaming houses. Crowley hears the wood of the buildings pop in the flames, but they’re so close now, almost past the worst -

There is a resounding crash, unbearable heat, then Crowley is crushed by a warm body and wrapped in glowing wings, soft white feathers brushing against him even as he’s- _burning, burning, have to get away, out of the fire, his wings, agony, he can feel every feather scorching, fire crawling up, devouring his essence_-

Crowley comes back to himself on the ground, Aziraphale atop him like an over warm quilt. The angel is shouting hoarsely, and Crowley wiggles himself out from underneath him to see why. The once glowing wings are scorched black and burning, with some of the feathers already burned clean away. Aziraphale is beating his wings in agony, only fanning the remaining embers hotter, and Crowley reaches for his cloak and throws it over the smoking wings.

Aziraphale shrieks at the touch, thrashing wildly to get away from Crowley’s restraining arms as the demon tries to pat out the flames. “Gkk,” Aziraphale chokes, twisting in Crowley’s grasp, “Burns!”

“I’m sorry, Azriaphale, I’m so sorry, hold still for me, you’re only making it worse.” The angel’s energy is rapidly fading, no longer twisting in Crowley’s arms so much as lying rigid and taking quick, shuddering breaths that rattle his frame. Crowley doesn’t dare look under the cloak wrapped haphazardly around the wings, and more to the point, he doesn’t have time. The fire is at their backs and they need to flee.

He grabs Aziraphale’s arm and drags him upright, heedless of how Aziraphale shouts and then fades listlessly into the demon’s side. Crowley attempts to drag Aziraphale forward, but the awkward weight of the angel’s wings means he doesn’t have the speed to beat the flames.

“Angel, you have to help me, or else we’re both going to discorporate here,” he yells, punctuating the plea with a shake. Aziraphale rouses from where he’s slumped at Crowley’s side, and takes a staggered step forward, flinching as he does.

“C’mon, Aziraphale, you can do this. Keep moving.” They’re speeding up now, Crowley practically dragging Aziraphale forward through the city. The angel is panting raggedly as he tries to keep up, but he’s also fading fast, whatever burst of adrenaline that spurred him forward draining away like quicksilver. Each step Aziraphale takes is clumsier than the last, and there’s no way he can maintain Crowley’s punishing pace, but they can’t stop now, not here.

“Just a little farther, Aziraphale. We’re almost there,” Crowley begs, readjusting his grip.

They’re not almost there, they’re not even close to almost there. Crowley wants them out of the city, away from these tinderbox tenements and into the countryside where there’s no hint of flame. Beside him, Aziraphale is groaning faintly, each sound clearly a suppressed cry of pain. When he finally wheezes, “Crowley, I can’t,” Crowley swallows the ache in his heart and lets them stagger to a stop.

They desperately need to keep moving, but Aziraphale is spent, legs folding and collapsing in the filthy street. There are tears of pain crawling through the soot on his face, and Crowley doesn’t know what to do. He needs out of this miserable city, and he can’t miracle them out with Aziraphale’s essence trapped in his wings.

He spins in a circle, looking desperately for someone or something to help him, and he spots a large cart. The left front wheel is broken and its seen better days, but to Crowley it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He mends the wheel with a snap of his fingers, then pulls it over to where Aziraphale is slumped on the road.

The fire is inching steadily closer behind them, so Crowley wastes no time in hauling Aziraphale to his feet. The angel is shivering with pain, trembling against Crowley’s side as his burned wings drag behind them. Crowley manhandles Aziraphale into the back of the cart, doing his best not to touch the cloak covered wings, but vague feelings of _agony, fire, drowning_ bombard him nonetheless.

Once Aziraphale is situated, Crowley jumps down and throws himself into the traces, utilizing a demonic miracle to speed through the streets of London until he reaches a gate in the wall, where the people crowding the exit find themselves parting like the sea before Moses.

Out of the city walls, Crowley heads toward an open grassy field. The stifled cries from the back of the cart have decreased in volume and frequency since they’ve left the city proper, and he desperately needs to check on Aziraphale and make sure he’s still alive. He skids to a halt on the side of the road then hauls himself into the back of the cart where Aziraphale is gasping faintly.

The angel seems to be semi-conscious, and when Crowley touches his arm Aziraphale’s eyes open sluggishly, pain swirling behind the blue irises. “Hey, Aziraphale. Can you hear me? How badly are you hurt?”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale rasps. The angel shifts muzzily, then goes rigid as his wings scrape against the side of the cart. He groans loudly as the cloak shifts on his wings, and Crowley can see the remains of charred feathers underneath. The cart is too small to do a proper assessment however, and with reluctance Crowley crouches down and says, “We need to get you out of his cart. Can you manage that?”

Aziraphale nods dazedly, not even questioning why he needs to move. He doesn’t seem entirely conscious. When Crowley pulls him upright, Aziraphale freezes at the unexpected pain, breath catching as he lets the agony wash over him. He only resumes breathing when Crowley pulls him down, and even then his breaths are faint, rough gasps.

As the demon lowers Aziraphale gently to the ground, the angel clutches at him, eyes rolling as his wings make contact with the rough grass. Crowley grimaces in sympathy and begins to carefully pull his cloak from where it’s stuck to Aziraphale’s wings.

The damage is gruesome. Huge swaths of Aziraphale’s secondaries have burned away on his right wing, and golden ichor oozes from the partially burnt feathers that remain. The exterior of the wings seems to have borne the brunt of the flames, so Crowley gently shifts Aziraphale up so he can lay on his side and stomach, relieving some of the pressure on the scorched feathers.

Crowley can see the huge gaps in Aziraphale’s wingspan clearly now as the angel spreads them wide in agony, as if he can’t bear the charred remnants of feathers to touch each other.

Aziraphale twists agonizingly on the ground, seemingly torn between holding his wings rigid to avoid touching anything and wanting to draw them close to protect them from further harm. He’s panting heavily though he doesn’t need the air, but it seems as though Aziraphale’s corporation has taken over bodily functions while his angelic essence is trapped in his wings.

Crowley watches miserably as Aziraphale chokes and shudders on the ground, then asks quietly, “Can you discorporate?”

“No,” Aziraphale hisses out through clenched teeth. “Don’t dare. Heaven won’t send me back, I didn’t protect the cathedral -” He yelps as the pain spikes, then says bitterly, “I can’t even follow orders!” His voice goes rough and sharp, like he’s repeating something he’s heard before.

Crowley stares down at him, aghast, but Aziraphale doesn’t notice, eyes shut against another wave of agony. “Okay, Aziraphale. Discorporation is off the table.” But Crowley can’t just sit here as Aziraphale writhes out his pain under the uncaring night sky.

Perhaps he could try healing Aziraphale’s essence? No, the last time he’d reached out to heal Aziraphale’s true self he’d almost been smote off the planet.

Aziraphale chokes on a breath, groaning gutturally like he’s been stabbed. Maybe Crowley could take some of the pain? Share the load as it were? Crowley reaches out his hand tentatively, hesitating a few inches above a gleaming, unburned primary. Aziraphale’s eyes are still tightly shut as he tries to breathe through the pain, and Crowley watches as the angels face contorts when a burnt feather catches and pulls in the breeze.

At this face, Crowley plunges his hand forward, touching the soft primary feather and- _pain, wave after wave, wind catching at his burnt feathers, ah! Oh God, can’t discorporate, heaven won’t send him back, where’s crowley? can’t leave crowley, ah, AH! oh God oh God, please spare him, his essence **burns**, the fire is burning him, did they find out about the Arrangement, is heaven forcing him to fall? he’ll never disobey again, mercy, please-_

Crowley tumbles backwards, panting, lost in memories of his own fall and feeling the flames lick across his wings as he tumbles through the sky-

Aziraphale makes a sound in his throat, drawing him back to the present. On the grass, the angel keens desperately, hands clenched into fists and tendons white with strain.

That hadn’t worked at all. He’d meant to be a lifeline to Aziraphale, and instead he’d simply drowned next to him. He remembered the burnt agony of his own feathers after the fall, and remembers a newly fallen <strike>angel</strike> demon showing him how to make a salve for the pain. This was something he _could_ do to help Aziraphale, and he quickly snaps several jars of salve into existence.

Idea solidified, he crouches down at Aziraphale’s head, lightly touching his cheek to draw his attention. “I have an idea,” Crowley says lowly, trying not to add to the angel’s distress. “Do you trust me?”

It’s a loaded question. Their arrangement is still fairly new, only a few hundred years old, but the foundation is strong. If Crowley is going to help Aziraphale, apply this salve to angelic essence turned wings, he needs to be absolutely sure Aziraphale won’t smite him.

There is a long, weighty pause as Aziraphale trembles on the ground, wings twitching and shivering behind him. Then Aziraphale clears his throat. “Yes. I trust you.”

The tension that had been building in Crowley releases, and he absolutely doesn’t let the admission warm his chest. “I’m glad to hear it, angel. You’re not going to like this next bit. I need to touch your wings, okay?”

“Why?” Aziraphale grits out, shivering in earnest now his burnt wings are exposed.

“I have a salve that will help the pain but I need to touch your wings to put it on. Do you understand?”

Aziraphale nods rigidly, grunting as he opens his wings wider in anticipation of the demon’s touch.

“Whoa, easy there, Aziraphale. I don’t have to do this. We can always wait it out, it should only be a few hours longer.” Theoretically, Crowley could try to release Aziraphale from the rudimentary spell forcing the angel’s essence into his wings, but Crowley worries that would do more harm than good.

“No,” the angel eventually says. “Please. Whatever you think will help.” His shivering has extended to his wings now as he shifts clumsily onto his stomach and spreads them fully, exposing the worst of the damage. The burned feathers catch in the faint breeze and pull at the charred skin underneath, but it’s the slowly oozing ichor in the broken feathers that has Crowley most concerned.

That’s Aziraphale’s angelic essence seeping into the open air. It reminds him of the rebellion, golden ichor splattered on the ground as angels fought their way out of heaven, plunging over the side into darkness, feather’s catching fire in the heat of the fall-

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, angel. I’m fine.” He tamps down the memories threatening to flare up then says, “I’m going to have to stop the bleeding first, okay? I need to pull these feathers. Hold still.” He miracles up a thick pair of leather gloves, wary of touching Aziraphale’s holy blood with his bare hands and hoping the leather will be thick enough to protect him from the angel’s essence.

He doesn’t think Aziraphale will appreciate a countdown, so with quick movements he plucks the first broken feather. Aziraphale screams. The angel twitches his wing up and away from the demon’s hand as ichor wells up, but Crowley chases after him determinedly and firmly pushes his thumb onto the wound. He doesn’t know if angelic essence has clotting factor, but he’ll be blessed if he lets Aziraphale bleed out under his hands.

Underneath him, Aziraphale’s raspy, upset breaths fill the quiet night air, his glassy eyes staring dully at Crowley’s thumb on his wing. After the ichor slows to a stop and Aziraphale’s eyes slip closed, Crowley lifts his thumb to survey the angel’s wing with dread. There are at least a half dozen feathers that will need to be pulled before he can even begin to apply the salve.

“M’sorry,” Aziraphle mumbles in a breathless, bewildered tone at Crowley’s pause. “Didn’t mean to move.”

“Don’t apologize,” Crowley growls roughly, anger and fear welling up in his stomach. “It’s not your fault.” If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his. He’s the one who accidentally manifested Aziraphale’s wings and got them into this horrific situation.

“Have to pull the rest of ‘em,” Aziraphale slurs, interrupting his thoughts. As much as Crowley doesn’t want to admit it, Aziraphale is right. While his fears of Aziraphale bleeding out are likely exaggerated, leaving his wings like this will only cause problems in the long run.

“It’s going to hurt,” Crowley warns.

“I trust you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says faintly, locking eyes with the demon. The depth of Aziraphale’s sincerity swirls behind his eyes, and Crowley feels the burden of it fall squarely on his shoulders.

“Alright, angel,” Crowley says. “You trust me. Are you ready?”

Aziraphale takes a ragged breath and says, “Yes. Don’t stop. Even if I beg you to.” Crowley nods grimly and reaches for the next bleeding feather.

* * *

If someone were to ask Crowley what hell was like, he might describe it like this. He is kneeling in a field, pulling feathers from an angel’s wings as the angel flinches and shouts, and he isn’t allowed to stop pulling the feathers even though the angel pleads with him and claws gashes into the grass. This endless cycle of pulling feathers would continue until the end of eternity, and Crowley would keep diminishing with each desperate plea until he turned into ash on the wind.

But this isn’t hell, and eventually there are no more damaged feathers to remove. He stutters to a stop, staring dully at the wing and the trembling, shuddering angel attached to it. Aziraphale’s eyes are glazed over, completely empty of sentience as his corporation hitches out rasping breaths in the grass. Crowley feels empty too, like someone’s hollowed out his insides and left a demon shaped body behind.

Mechanically, Crowley peels off the ichor covered gloves and drops them to the side, golden essence glinting in the moonlight. Then he miracles another pair onto his hands and reaches for the open jar of salve. He feels distant as he watches his hands gently apply salve to the worst of the burns, soothing the skin underneath and tucking the remaining feathers into place.

He loses time as he works his way down the right wing, cleaning each feather of ash and dust before moving onto the left wing and repeating the process. At the end of it, Aziraphale is almost relaxed on the grass, the first rays of sunlight peeking over the horizon.

Now that his task is complete, Crowley finds himself with his gloves removed and slowly drifting back into the abyss of nothing. The only thing that tethers him to his corporation is the soft white feathers brushing over the skin of his bare hand, and the faint feelings of _tired, safe, pain but it’s far away, soothed by gentle hands, twinge of worry, Crowley? Crowley, what’s wrong?_

Crowley snaps back to reality, disoriented and confused as he looks down. Aziraphale is eyeing him worriedly over his shoulder, evidently reluctant to move his wings. “Are you alright, my dear?”

“I’m fine, angel,” he replies, running a rough hand over his cheek. It rasps on stubble he’s forgotten to miracle away, and he wills it gone with a thought. “How are you doing? Spell should be wearing off any minute now, you know.”

“I think you’re right,” Aziraphale replies, sounding tired but pleased. As the daylight creeps over the glowing white wings, they shimmer translucently and begin to fade from view, vanishing feather by feather like a strange backwards puzzle. When the last feather winks from view, Aziraphale sits up and rolls his shoulders with a grimace, then settles back onto the heels of his hands with a smile. Clear, lucid blue eyes meet Crowley’s gaze.

“There,” Aziraphale says. “All sorted out.”

“All sorted out?” Crowley says incredulously.

“Yes, everything in order. I think there might be some lingering soreness, but I should be fine in a few days.”

“Angel, I just spent hours pulling your feathers, everything will _not_ be fine in a few days! Do you even know how long it takes burned wings to heal? Because I do, and let me tell you, it’s not pretty.” Aziraphale says nothing, simply watching as Crowley gestures angrily and blows off steam.

“Don’t just stare at me, Aziraphale, this is serious! You’re going to need someone to tend to those wings, they won’t heal correctly if you don’t take care of them. I don’t fancy Uriel or Sandalphon helping you check if the new feathers are coming in correctly. Angel, are you listening to me?” Crowley walks over and snaps his fingers in front of Aziraphale’s face, slightly worried that the angel isn’t reacting in the slightest to his speech.

“I’m listening, my dear,” Aziraphale replies, smiling softly. “I appreciate your concern, but I think you’re overlooking something rather important.”

“And what’s that angel? Michael’s secretly a dab hand at wing grooming?” Crowley huffs.

“No,” Aziraphale says gently as he stands and halts Crowley’s pacing. “I don’t think Michael even knows how to groom wings. What you’re missing is that I have _you_ to help me.” The way Aziraphale is looking at him now, like Crowley is someone to be trusted and cherished and depended upon... Crowley would groom Aziraphale’s wings every day for the next century to keep that look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Ngk,” says Crowley.

“What do you say, Crowley? Another addition to the Arrangement? You groom my wings and I groom yours?”

“Yeah, I think I can work that into my schedule,” Crowley replies, reaching for nonchalant and landing squarely on eager.

“It’s a deal then. Now, shall we go grab a spot of breakfast? I know London’s out of the question at the moment, but there’s a little hamlet right down the road that does a scrumptious spread...”

Crowley lets Aziraphale’s chatter wash over him as he contemplates the nature of trust and love and watches his angel lead them towards their next destination.

**Author's Note:**

> I am stretching the timeline a little bit here, so here are the facts. Cheapside, one of the roads Crowley uses to escape, begins to burn Tuesday morning. The exit Crowley contemplates as an escape routes, Ludgate, was supposedly on fire either Tuesday afternoon and evening. St. Paul’s Cathedral caught fire at 8pm on Tuesday night. What this all means is I’m hedging a little bit on how the fire actually burned through the city to make it plausible for Crowley to be able to reach the Cathedral and later escape.
> 
> If you’re interested in the fire of London, there’s lots of really cool resources [here](http://www.fireoflondon.org.uk/story/streets-and-buildings/) and [here](https://www.bl.uk/learning/timeline/large103629.html).
> 
> Also for anyone wondering what Crowley and Aziraphale were wearing in this story, [here](http://www.historicalmenswear.com/1600s/) is an excellent resource on men’s fashion in the 1600’s.
> 
> I also owe a great deal of debt to the story [In the Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/265811) by nightrider101 and Zatnikatel. See if you can spot the line I borrowed as tribute to their amazing writing. Also shout out to [Castaway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15942401/chapters/37991192#workskin) for inspiring the wing grooming scene!
> 
> Lastly, a shout out to [Turcote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turcote/pseuds/Turcote) for being a great editor and cheerleader. I’m also grateful for [Kazeetie](https://kazeetie.tumblr.com/) and [purrplekat1989](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrplekat1989) for letting me borrow their eyes for grammar checks.


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